


You Always Run Away

by garconrouge



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: (slight) - Freeform, Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Artist Grantaire, Domestic Fluff, Flashbacks, Is that a thing, M/M, Offscreen character death, Paris (City), Recreational Drug Use, Running Away, Smoking, Strangers to Lovers, Time Skips, Trans Enjolras, Trans Male Character, matching tattoos, strangers to lovers to strangers
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-11-07
Updated: 2019-01-09
Packaged: 2019-08-20 00:13:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,364
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16545056
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/garconrouge/pseuds/garconrouge
Summary: Grantaire's lived in the same small town since before he can remember. He's always told himself that one day, he'll run away to the city. When he meets a blonde-haired waiter with just as much disdain for life, the dream seems so much closer than ever before, and the year they spend together will remain etched into his heart forever.





	1. ten years after

**Author's Note:**

> two things!  
> 1\. this is a prologue of sorts, hence why its so short. proper chapters will be longer.  
> 3\. this is heavily inspired by "because of the shame" by against me!, which is a killer song and i suggest you all listen to it

Grantaire looked himself up and down in the mirror. This was the last place he'd ever wanted to be. It felt so final- saying goodbye to old ghosts that'd haunted him for years. This was closure, if only a few years too late. He was hopeful this would help, but he knew in his heart that it was unlikely he'd ever be over what had happened. He'd loved so deeply, so intensely- he'd never been able to shake the feelings he'd held for that man. He'd loved and lost his soulmate long ago, and he was forever to carry that pain.

He was sure the suit didn't fit him right. It was awkward, tight in places and loose in others. The shoulders seemed to stick out farther than they should and the tie was weirdly long. He hadn't had long to prepare, and the dingy streets of Paris that he frequented didn't tend to require formalwear. Floréal, a friend of his who made her living as a tailor, had been out of town in the week he'd recieved the news that summoned him here. Grantaire had never known anything about fashion, and he floundered on his own.

As he fastened the last few buttons on his shirt, he caught a glimpse of the tattoo on his left pec, right above his heart. A name, old and faded now. A name that meant so much and yet so little these days. He blinked back tears as he finished dressing. It was pathetic, being so attatched to someone who was nothing but a memory now.

He hadn't smoked for years, but he'd picked up both cigarettes and weed on his way out of Paris. The type they'd always smoked together. Sneaking the drugs through customs had been hell, but it was worth it just in case he needed them again. It just felt right, smoking here. It was symbolic, in the ridiculously pathetic way Grantaire had perfected as of late.

He walked out of the hotel room, down the stairs and into the smoking shelter out back. Grantaire was annoyed that such a concept even existed- back in Paris, he'd never stay in a hotel that didn't allow smoking in the rooms. But here in England, it seemed normal to restrict his ability to poison his own lungs.  
England.

He'd swore he'd never come here. He had to, in order to stop himself becoming delirious, flying over and making a fool of himself in front of his old lover and whatever new life he'd built for himself.

Grantaire lit a cigarette first. It must have been at least eight years since he'd last smoked. He quit because it was expensive, and his income had slowed after he'd lost his painting muse. The sharp sting of smoke was a familiar comfort in the back of his throat. He had a feeling he'd empty the pack before the day was out.

He needed to leave the hotel in a few minutes, and make his way towards the old hall he'd been dreading entering for a week now. He'd need the weed for later, when he'd gotten to the end of this ordeal and would need to calm his anxiety.

This was not a good day for Grantaire.


	2. one month before

Grantaire hated chain coffee shops. They were noisy, overpriced, and almost always full of the type of people he liked to avoid- the ones who seemed impossibly happy to be drinking coffee at seven in the evening. 

This particular chain shop had waiters. It didn't seem like that much effort, standing up and collecting the coffee you'd ordered yourself, but nevertheless this partcular establishment seemed keen to have its patrons sit and be waited on. Unless you were ordering your drink to go, you couldn't even approach the counter to order- like in a restaurant, you were expected to sit and wait until a member of staff came by to ask what you would like. It seemed unnecessary and a waste of good time to Grantaire.

He didn't mind it too much on one particular day, however. The waiter who approached him was young- certainly at least a year or two younger than Grantaire himself.  He had a soft, rounded face and his blonde curls were pulled messily into a bun. There were dark bags under his eyes; he was tired, and Grantaire couldn't blame him for that. He'd be exhausted if he had to work in this place all day too. 

"Can I take your order?" he said, voice cheery in that fake-happy way Grantaire knew all too well. There was nothing genuine behind it, all straw and stuffing to create the appearance of a content man.

"Yeah, can I get a coffee?" 

"Is that a latte, a cappuchino, an espresso, or-"

"Just coffee. Like, normal coffee." He'd been through this before. They don't do  _just coffee_ , and despite how often he'd lingered here, Grantaire had never learned the pretentious name for what he wanted. 

"I'll try my best," the waiter sighed, writing on the tiny notebook he was carrying and turning to walk away. 

"And order yourself whatever you want," Grantaire offered quickly. "Stick it on my bill. Anything." He wasn't usually so generous. Grantaire didn't have much money, and so he spent a great deal of his time trying to keep as much of it as possible. There was something about this waiter and his tired eyes, though. Grantaire wanted to help, at least a little.

The boy perked up for a moment, a genuine grin flashing onto his face, exactly what Grantaire had been aiming for.

"Don't give me that power, I might just create the most expensive drink ever," the waiter said, a laugh to his voice now.

"You'd never be so evil."

Grantaire enjoyed watching as the boy walked back towards the counter, now with a slight spring to his step. He knew it couldn't be common for customers to be generous to the servers like that, which frustrated him. He couldn't fathom why others wouldn't want to see the smile that now graced the waiter's face as he returned to the front desk and rung up the order. 

He tried not to stare. It was rude and creepy- but when he noticed the waiter was snacking on a chocolate cookie while making his drink, he couldn't help but keep watching him. He seemed happier now; genuinely happy, as opposed to the dead-behind-the-eyes vibe he'd been giving off moments earlier.

He came back over a few minutes later, Grantaire's drink in hand. There were cookie crumbs in the corner of his mouth. 

"Here's your drink," he said, placing it on the table in front of him, "and thank you for your generosity."

"Thank you. And you're welcome. I mean- I wanted to do something nice for you. You look tired as hell, man." His smile seemed to widen briefly at that, which Grantaire didn't quite understand, but it made him happy. Grantaire handed him the money for his order, and took back the change the waiter offered him.

"It's just been a long day," he said as he began to walk away, "but my break's in a few minutes. Sweet relief, even if it is brief." Grantaire wasn't sure whether that was an invitation or not, but he made a note to drink quickly. He wasn't entirely sure why, but the blonde waiter had piqued his interest. He wanted to get to know the boy, to talk to him, be his friend or maybe more. 

The boy was attractive, he'd admit. Grantaire didn't often like to talk about the fact that he found men attractive. His parents weren't big on the idea of gay people, so he always tried to repress that side of himself. He wasn't gay, but he wasn't quite  _straight_ either. They didn't have to know that, though. 

He finished his coffee quickly, focusing on not missing the waiter's break. Grantaire lived close to this coffee shop, and he'd seen the employees hang out in the grassy area behind the building often. He guessed that this would be where this waiter went too. 

It'd been a solid five minutes and he couldn't spot the waiter anywhere in the café any more, so he abandoned his table and walked outside to the grassy area. Sure enough, the waiter was there, sitting on a bench under a makeshift sign reading "SMOKING AREA". There was a packet of cigarettes in his hands, and he was fumbling with the lid. 

"Mind if I join?" Grantaire asked. The waiter's head flicked up suddenly, and he looked surprised to see Grantaire there.

"Uh, yeah sure, I- why? If you don't mind me asking?" he dropped the packet of cigarettes at the end of his sentence, cursing as he had to pick them back up again.

"You seemed cool, and just as fed up with life as I am. Figured I might as well come over and talk to you properly without the premise of coffee."

"I hate coffee," the waiter announced suddenly. He was pulling a cigarette from the packet, and seemed wholly serious, "It's awful, and bitter, and made of beans. I mean, who decided to make a drink from  _beans?"_

"So what do you drink, then? If not coffee?"

"Hot chocolate." The answer came abruptly, as if it was always on the tip of the waiter's tongue. "I love hot chocolate an extraordinary amount. It's the best."

"You should've bought yourself a hot chocolate with my money, then," Grantaire offered with a laugh. The waiter had lit his cigarette by now. It was a type Grantaire didn't often see around here- Pall Mall, an American brand that only a few shops sold. Most people he knew, himself included, smoked Gitanes.

"Oh don't worry, I did. I just hid it from you."

"Is that right? I should sue." The two of them broke down laughing, the cigarette burning idly as the waiter was too busy laughing to smoke. 

"I'm Grantaire, by the way," he offered when the two of them had calmed significantly. Grantaire regretted not bringing his own cigarettes with him when he left the house- the scent pooling around them was making him crave a smoke.

"Enjolras," the waiter offered back, holding out a hand for Grantaire to shake. He took it.

Enjolras was a nice name. It fit the waiter well. Enjolras was exactly the name for someone who looked destined for more than a dead-end waiting job at an overly pretentious coffee shop. Enjolras was the name of somebody who was meant for great things. 

"Have you worked here long?" Grantaire asked. He'd been to this particular coffee shop quite often, and he was certain he'd never seen Enjolras before. He would have noticed him.

"I started last week", Enjolras said. I finished school last year and I've just been sitting around since then. I figured I should get a job, if only for something to do all day." 

This meant he was only around a year younger than Grantaire. He certainly didn't look it; the waiter had such a youthful look on his face, with no sign of stubble or a harsh jawline. He could easily pass for six-or-seventeen, and Grantaire was a little surprised to learn that he was nineteen, or possibly slightly older. 

"What do you do, then? Anything exciting?" the waiter asked, bringing the cigarette back to his lips and snapping Grantaire out of the small pit of thought he'd fallen into.

"Nothing, really," Grantaire admitted, nudging the grass below them with his boot. "I paint, but it's more of a hobby than a job. Something to kill the hours in this shitty town." 

"I'd say painting is more impressive than pouring coffee, though," Enjolras laughed, "even if you don't make a living from it." 

"It's impossible to make a living of anything here." Grantaire could feel himself preparing to ramble. He'd thought these exact words a thousand times over in his head, and there was just something about Enjolras that made him want to tell him everything. Pretty boys had that effect on him. "It's so dead here, everything's dead. There's no life in this place. I always tell myself that one day I'll run away."

It probably didn't count as running away if there was nobody to run  _from_ , but that detail didn't matter in that moment. This stranger didn't need to hear too much of the woes from Grantaire's heart.

"Where would you go?" There seemed to be a genuine interest to his question. It was a welcome change to see somebody who actually cared about what Grantaire had to say, for once. 

"Anywhere. Bourdeux, Montpellier, Lyon. Somewhere where there's people who do more than just exist. All I want is a little excitement in life, and I don't think I'm going to find it here. 

"I hope you do it," he replied, butting out the cigarette he'd now smoked down to the filter. "I hope you get away. Send me a postcard from wherever you make it to. I'll stick it on my wall, for inspiration."

They laughed, and the laughter calmed into a comfortable silence. They sat there for a few moments, side by side looking out across the grass, until an alarm rang on Enjolras's phone.

"Ah, shit," he mumbled, pulling his phone from his pocket, "my break's over, I gotta go." 

"I don't envy you," Grantaire laughed, getting up from the bench, "have fun." 

"I'll try my best," Enjolras said with a smirk. "It was nice talking to you, thanks for keeping me company. And the hot chocolate." 

"You're welcome," Grantaire replied as he watched Enjolras go back inside, into the stuffy coffee shop to finish his shift. 

It had been nice talking to him, Grantaire thought. In the space of half an hour, he'd been captivated by the waiter, with his long blonde hair and piercing blue eyes. He hoped Enjolras would be there the next time he found himself craving expensive caffeine. He also made a note to stop by this particular coffee shop more often than he had previously, if only to hope for another encounter with the stranger.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i hope you're having a great new year so far!   
> come talk to me @ garcon-rouge.tumblr.com


End file.
